


Cry Wolf

by WL_Erkling



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Origin Story, The Boy Who Cried Wolf, Werewolf, fairy tale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-23 14:39:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11404518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WL_Erkling/pseuds/WL_Erkling
Summary: Young Remus Lupin enjoys his mother’s tales of fairies and wolves and trolls. Little does he know he’s about to become one. [Werewolf!Lupin Origin Story]





	Cry Wolf

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Once_Upon_a_Parchment](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Once_Upon_a_Parchment) collection. 



> Disclaimer:  
> All canon character, plots, and situations from the Harry Potter series belong to JK Rowling. I am not profiting from this work.
> 
> A big thank you goes out to olivieblake for helping to beta this story. As always--she makes anything I write just a bit more palatable. 
> 
> Lines marked with an * are pulled from the original fairy tales of _Little Red Riding Hood_ and _The Three Little Pigs_
> 
> Winner of the Best Drama category in the Once Upon a Parchment competition 08/2017  
> 
> 
>  
> 
> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
> The Boy Who Cried Wolf - a young boy repeatedly tricks villagers into thinking wolves are attacking. When a wolf actually does appear and the boy calls for help, nobody believes him.

“Grandmother, what big eyes you have! ***** ”

 

Candlelight filters onto the text, soft fingers of gold highlighting the words as she reads them. One look at Remus’ excitement pushes her to continue.

 

“All the better to see with, my child. ***** ” He gasps as her index finger reaches slowly to flip the page. “Grandmother, what big teeth you have got! ***** ”

 

“Oh no!” cries Remus, huddling down into his blankets.

 

Hope laughs softly, her arm wrapped around his shoulder to hold the book in front of them. “All the better to eat you up with. ***** ” She pauses here, letting it sink in. “And, saying these words, this wicked wolf fell upon Little Red Riding Hood, and ate her all up. ***** ”

 

He squeals, turning away, but she tosses the worn book to the end of the bed and digs her fingers into his sides, tickling him until he’s laughing breathlessly. They’re both smiling when Lyall appears at the doorway, but it’s the flush of Hope’s cheeks and the light air of the room that separates them.

 

“Ready for bed, little love?” Every night, she asks the same question.

 

Every night, he gives her the same answer: he scrunches his face and purses his lips until she kisses him softly.

 

“Sleep well,” she whispers as she moves from his side, snags the book, and holds it closely—just long enough to remember when her mother had read it to her—before shelving it on the way out.

 

* * *

 

His chin jerks slightly, toes twitching beneath the sheet. The soft blue blanket is on the floor where he’s kicked it off the bed. In an instant, his body goes rigid. Legs are flailing and his brow rubs sweat across his pillow.

 

“Wolf! WOLF!” The call is shrill; a startled cry that warbles as it goes on.

 

Beyond the sliver of light, beyond the door are the pounding of feet as Lyall rushes from his bed. When he shoulders through, he isn’t sure what to expect. Wand raised and a _Protego_ flying from his lips, Lyall discovers nothing but his son in the thrall of a night terror.

 

He growls, bellowing “Remus!” into the small room. It thunders back at him, but he stands and waits as his son wakes, rubbing sleep from his eyes with a curled fist.

 

All he sees is a shadowed figure looming in the doorway, a hulking man he thinks is his father. Remus scoots back on the bed and takes quick, panicked breaths. “Dad?” he whispers. Lyall breathes heavily into the room. When there’s no answer, Remus grips his sheet and shivers. “D-dad?” he tries again.

 

“Don’t ever do that, boy.”

 

Lyall spins on his heel and slams the door behind him. Remus is left in the dark. His mother always leaves the door cracked open—just enough for the light to break through. He doesn’t get up to open it; instead, he sits in bed and watches the back of the door until his eyelids are too heavy—until he puddles at the top of his bed—sheet still clutched tightly between white-knuckled fingers.

 

* * *

 

Remus stands at the window, one hand using the curtain to shelter him while the other rests on the sill. In the garden is his father, whose wand moves quietly at his side. Spells reach the target across the yard and Remus gasps as part of it is dislodged, falling to the ground. Instead of flourishing his wand like many wizards Remus has seen, Lyall’s movements are precise, his casting simple.

 

The spells he uses, however, are not. Each time Lyall resets the magical target, Remus’ nose leans just a little bit closer to the pane of glass. He’s smudged it, but doesn’t notice until fingers glide gently over his shoulders, squeezing once.

 

Remus jumps where he stands, looking up into the comforting face of his mother. She smiles, but nods at Lyall, who continues without interruption. Remus feels the kiss placed on the crown of his head before she whispers, “He loves you, Remus.”

 

This time, when he looks up at her, the insecurity is clear in his eyes. She smiles, runs the back of her index finger along his cheek, then walks away. He turns to look out the window, mouth slightly open as if waiting for Lyall to call him outside so that he can respond, “Yes, father!” and rush through the door.

 

Another hour passes and the acknowledgment never comes. Remus lets the curtain fall back into place and pads quietly back to his room.

 

* * *

 

“Little pig, little pig, let me come in, ***** ” Hope bellows in her best wolf impersonation. Remus giggles and stares at the picture of the scared pig.

 

“No, no by the hair of my chinny chin chin. ***** ” This time, her voice goes high and squeaky and Remus falls into a fit of laughter. Hope scrunches her nose and points to the next line. “Then I’ll huff, and I’ll puff, and I’ll blow your house in. ***** ” This line Remus and Hope say together, for he knows it by heart.

 

She smiles as she flips the page, continuing the story until they get to Remus’ favorite part.

 

“Then the wolf was very angry indeed, and declared he _would_ eat up the little pig, and that he would get down the chimney after him. When the little pig saw what he was about, he hung on the pot full of water, and made up a blazing fire, and, just as the wolf was coming down, took off the cover, and in fell the wolf— ***** ” Here, Hope pauses, letting Remus’ anticipation grow.

 

“Go on!” he says, nudging her as he buries his nose against her side.

 

A soft laugh is response enough before she finishes. “—so the little pig put on the cover again in an instant, boiled him up, and ate him for supper, and lived happily ever afterwards. ***** ”

 

“He ate him up?”

 

She grins, her teeth gleaming in the candlelight. “Yes, little pig. He ate him all up!”

 

Hope leans over Remus, nipping gently at his belly until she tugs his shirt up and blows onto the soft skin there. He squeals and kicks out, but she doesn’t stop.

 

“Ready for bed, little love?”

 

Remus tosses his head back against the pillow, scrunches his nose and purses his lips, giving a silly, “oink!”

 

She gives him the sort of smile and kiss a mother gives when she’s sure her child is tucked safely in bed. The candles are blown out and Remus closes his eyes, oblivious to the darkness beyond his room.

 

Hours into the night, Remus wakes suddenly. There’s a scratching at his window. He waits to see if he’s imagined it, but it shrieks down the pane and he jumps from his bed, scrambling across the room. In his haste, he realizes he’s put himself nearer the window rather than away.

 

The moon is light—almost full—and he can see outside. There’s a shadow over his window and he starts to shake, holding his knees to his chest. When the noise comes again, he screams.

 

“Help! Help me!” There’s a pause when he thinks he hears something else, but the fear overtakes him and he cries “It’s the wolf! MOM! DAD! Help!”

 

By the time they reach his room, he’s motionless, but his eyes are locked on the window. Lyall rushes to the glass pane, slides it up and looks outside with wand raised. Hope wraps her arms around Remus and pulls him from the room. After a few detection spells, Lyall finds nothing.

 

He closes the window, walks into the hallway, and clenches his jaw at his fearful son.

 

“There’s nothing there, boy. Go back to bed.”

 

“But dad! There was! I know there was. He was coming through the window, I—”

 

Lyall steps forward. “I said go back to bed.”

 

“Lyall—” Hope starts, but he doesn’t let her finish. One look is enough. “Come on Remus. Let’s get you back to bed.”

 

She leads him back into the room and tucks him in. She pulls the curtains closed just a touch, covering up the moon.

 

“I love you, Remus.”

 

The words are soft and he feels their weight settle around him. He spends the evening staring at the window—falling asleep at the breakfast table in the morning.

 

* * *

 

Knees folded beneath him and book open on his lap, Remus sits in his favorite nook with the morning sun wrapping its warmth around him. Birds trill just on the other side of the open window; occasionally he looks up to see one at the feeder his mother likes to watch.

 

Everything is still—quiet—until the door slams and he hears his parents arguing in the kitchen.

 

“Hope, I’ve told you not to baby the boy.”

 

“I’m not babying him, Lyall. I’m just reading to him.”

 

“Then find something else to read to him.”

 

“These are the stories my parents read to me. They _mean_ something to me.” There’s a pause and Remus holds his breath. “Why can’t I read them to my own child? Are you really going to keep me from giving that to him?” There’s some shuffling and Remus shifts, trying not to make a sound.

 

“You and I both know those stories are more real than your parents ever knew.”

 

“What does that have to do with Remus?”

 

Remus tries not to lean too much as he listens to the conversation.

 

“I’ve said my piece, Hope.” He slaps something hard. “Enough with them.” Lyall walks out of the room, past the scurrying Remus and out of the house to the back yard. Seconds later, Remus hears the target explode.

 

He dares to peek around the corner into the kitchen. There sits his mother, her hand covering her mouth, eyes closed. Remus sinks to his knees, unsure what to do before retreating to his nook, but his book remains closed.

 

* * *

 

That night, Hope does not read to Remus. Instead, she pulls the covers back and waits for him to crawl beneath them, patting the blanket around him as if her hands say what her mouth cannot.

 

“Mother?” he asks.

 

She shakes her head sadly and moves some of the shaggy fringe from his forehead.

 

“Not tonight, love.”

 

She spends extra time pulling the blanket beneath his chin, gathering it around his arms and legs.

 

“Sleep well, Remus.”

 

Hope leans forward to place a kiss on his temple. Remus breathes deeply, inhaling the soft scent of her cooking—of the mutton she’d made for dinner and the broth that dripped from every bite. It’s comforting when nothing else is.

 

Remus waits for her to ask—she doesn’t. It leaves him feeling uneasy. When he scrunches his face, all he gets is another soft, sad smile, with a kiss to the cheek.

 

Hope leaves the slightest of cracks open in the door, trying to appease both Remus and Lyall. Remus lies facing the door, closing his eyes as the light filters through and his exhaustion from the day overtakes him.

 

In the early hours of twilight, Remus startles awake. His sleep-addled mind looks around the room—pausing on the door; his favorite book on the table; the window.

 

That’s when he sees the shadow; it’s moving.

 

He starts to panic. Remus wants to jump out of bed—to flee—but he remembers his father’s warnings and stays still. He watches as the dark figure moves, scratching and clawing until his window lifts just enough that he can feel the breeze. He shivers.

 

When dingy fingers slide through and a rumbling growl follows, Remus whimpers. He so desperately wants to move, but his father whispers in the back of his mind and the fear of his anger holds Remus in place.

 

So he waits.

 

He waits while an arm pokes through, then greasy, dark hair. It isn’t until he sees eyes—light blue eyes staring right at him—that Remus starts to shout.

 

“Help! Mum! Dad!” The screeching of his voice echoes around the room and terrifies him, makes him fear the thing creeping toward him even more, but he can’t help it. “Help me! MUMMY!” The creature crashes through the window then, no longer bothering with being subtle.

 

Paralyzed. Tears fall freely down his cheeks and he claws at the bed with wooden arms, trying to slither slowly beneath the covers, but a thick, broken voice cackles at him.

 

“None of that now, Lupin.”

 

Remus’ eyes go wide hearing his name. His crying intensifies and he calls out “Dad!” again.

  
Before him, the shadow begins to change. Remus screams in earnest now and he finally hears footsteps to match the pounding of his heart in his throat. All he can focus on is the muttering of his father as he thunders down the hall.

 

“This is ridiculous. Damn boy needs to get a grip on himself.”

 

Remus slinks lower. He recognizes the monster as it morphs into something—else. “Wolf!” he yelps. “WOOOOOLF!” he calls again, and Lyall growls from the hallway.

 

“Damn it, Hope! Enough of this already!” When Lyall tries the door to his son’s room, he finds it blocked. The shadow’s shouldered his bureau over and now prowls toward the bed.

 

“Soulless and evil, am I?” Fenrir drawls huskily. He hops up on the end of Remus’ bed. “Perhaps I’ll teach Lupin what it means to _deserve_ something.”

 

The creature lunges, grabbing Remus about the thigh. His teeth sink in and the boy screams. His wail fills the room and Fenrir laughs through the blood seeping down his jowls. He lets Remus go, lets him crawl toward the headboard, but grabs him again. His claws hold Remus tightly as his teeth sink deeper into the flesh about Remus’ waist.

 

Remus is frantically trying to get away, tearing the wounds as Fenrir’s teeth hold firm. The wolf doesn’t mind; he rather enjoys the taste of frightened little boys, and how they come apart so easily for him.

 

When he shakes the boy again, he hears pounding at the door, cursing, and sighs. He lets Remus go again, watches as he limply tries to protect himself. Remus flops halfway onto his back and Fenrir lashes out at his face, down his side, and around his navel. It isn’t until this point that Remus stops moving, stops screaming.

 

The silence makes Lyall nervous.

 

He crashes through the door just as Fenrir steps back. Lyall starts shooting off hexes and Fenrir has no defense where he stands, so he rushes toward the window. He breaks a pane to get out of the room as quickly as possible, snarling his way toward the woods.

 

Lyall scoops up his son, calling “Hope!” as he rushes from the room. When she sees the boy, one hand automatically moves to her mouth to hold in her silent scream—the other grabbing onto the wall for support.

 

“Oh God, Remus!” As she rushes forward, Lyall’s heavy steps take them to the kitchen. He gently lays the boy on the table. “Why aren’t you taking him to St. Mungo’s?” She asks, her voice straining to get through to him. “We need to get him to the hospital!”

 

Lyall doesn’t look at her. “He can’t go to the hospital.”

 

Hope stares. “Why not? You’re just going to let my boy die on my kitchen table?” Her voice is incredulous and she stares across the wooden table at her husband—their child bleeding between them.

 

“They can’t know,” he says, voice breaking. “No one can know.” Lyall starts moving methodically, using charms to stop the bleeding. “Get some bandages. We need to wrap these wounds.”

 

“Why can’t you heal this? Why do you need bandages, Lyall?”

 

“Just get them!” he demands before turning back to Remus.

 

When Hope returns with an arm full of bandages and tape, she stands across the table from Lyall. They work together to wrap his tender flesh. His body is torn and it takes everything she has not to focus on the smears of Remus’ blood as they dry slowly, gleaming beneath the kitchen lights.

 

Remus remains unconscious, but he shakes—twitches—as they move him.

 

“It’s tomorrow.”

 

“What?” Hope asks, holding Remus’ hand.

 

“The full moon.”

 

Her face registers only confusion.

 

“It was a werewolf, Hope.” Lyall’s shoulders drop, but he continues wringing his hands around his wand. “I should have gone to him! I should have listened! I could have saved him!”

 

Lyall turns to Hope with tears welling in his eyes. Snot drips from his nose and he’s helpless to do anything but react to the adrenaline drop in his system. He’s just seen his child attacked. It’s not something any parent should wish to see. Hope walks around the table and wraps her arms around him, their combined sorrow stuttering in the stale air of the kitchen.

 

When Lyall pulls away, they’re both covered in Remus’ blood. Lyall stares—there’s something about seeing Hope with their son’s blood in splotches on her jumper and he turns, gets sick on the floor. She tries to comfort him, to rub at his back, but he smacks away her hand.

 

“Don’t!”

 

Lyall runs from the room, leaving Hope to sit with Remus in the aftermath of everything that’s happened. She methodically cleans up the rest of the blood from his face. She pulls up a chair and sits next to him, her chin resting on the table.

 

Sometime in the night, Lyall returns. With him are several wizards she doesn’t recognize. One tips a hat to her; another greets her by name. She finds it odd, but they pay no attention to the broken boy on the kitchen table.

 

“Lyall?” He gives her a hard glare, but doesn’t respond. “Lyall, what are you doing?” she tries again. “You should be here. With Remus—with _me_.” Her voice is small now, pleading.

 

“I can’t do anything for that boy.”

 

He’s carrying a crossbow. Several darts in his hand are being tucked into his pocket. All she sees is a shadowed figure looming in the doorway, a hulking man he swears was once her husband—Remus’ father. She’s not sure who he is as he turns from them, leading the others into the night.

 

Hope’s grip on her son’s hand tightens when the door slams. She hears the rasp of his breathing, the uneven _in_ and _out_. As she sits there, alone, all she can think is whether she might lose _this_ —if that labored breathing might stop and she’ll lose _everything_.

 

Her palm brushes back the fringe from his forehead where sweat and blood have caked it there. She traces the outline of a bandage, watches as he squirms, then pours everything she has into the question: “Are you ready, little love?”


End file.
